


The Darlings

by noodlecatposts



Series: The Darlings [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Gang Violence, Gangs, Infidelity, Inspired By Peaky Blinders, Peaky Blinders AU Sort Of, Smut, feysand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: Rhysand Darling is the leader of a gang. He leads his family and protects his people; life is simple. Isn’t it?Peaky Blinders AU
Relationships: Azriel & Cassian & Rhysand (ACoTaR), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Morrigan & Rhysand (ACoTaR)
Series: The Darlings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640746
Comments: 59
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello, back with another au because I can’t stop myself. i have very little plot for this other than feysand in this setting? enjoy what i’ve got. we’ll see if i come up with anything else.

Rhys had a shit day, and he was ready for a drink.

He groans, settling into the stool at the bar, bones weary from a long day, scheming and managing Velaris affairs. Cassian plops beside him, into the seat on his left, and Azriel perches at the end of his own place, eyes focused on the door in ever-lasting vigilance.

Azriel would save all their lives one day. It was only the luck of the Cauldron that’d prevented him from having to do so yet.

“On the house Mr. Darling,” the bartender tells Rhys, approaching with an unopened bottle of amber liquid; he sets it on the counter with three pristine glasses. It was going to take a lot more than that to get these three Illyrian-bred bastards drunk, but it was a start.

Cassian cheers and Azriel begins to serve the drink, quietly eager for his own glass. Rhys nods to the bartender in thanks; the man is also the owner. He pays them for protection. Still, Rhys slides the man a generous amount of coin, enough to cover the monumental cost of getting the Darling brothers wasted and even leave enough for a generous tip.

Rhysand Darling paid his own way in life. No one else.

The pub owner gives Rhys a smile and curt nod before leaving the men to their drinks, allowing the space for the brothers to have any conversation they’d so desire. Rhys would take his brothers to the meeting room in the back before he discussed business out here in the opening. The walls have ears everywhere in Prythian.

○ ○ ○

“Thank you, Walter,” Rhys tells the pub owner when he brings the Darling Brothers another bottle. “You’re far too kind to us.”

The owner waves him off. “Not at all, Mr. Darling. You always take such good care of us.”

A snort echoes down the bar, loud in the still-quiet din of the evening. Velaris called it quits a little early today, and the rest of Prythian had yet to catch up with them. The pub owner pales at the idea that one of his patrons would be so rude to Rhys; he looks down the bar to find the patron.

The most dazzling creature ever stares back at Rhys, wearing an unimpressed look and a perfectly tailored navy skirt and jacket. The cut was from Paris; the fabric was expensive.

Yet, here she was sitting in his dirty pub.

Cassian draws in a breath when the drunken fool finally realizes what’s going on; Azriel eyes Rhys, waiting for his cue. They don’t know this woman, and that doesn’t happen.

Rhys sends a reassuring smile in the direction of the pub owner before rising from his spot and moving to claim the open seat next to their guest. A man walks in front of him, oblivious and drunk, but he takes one look at Rhysand Darling’s unamused expression and backs away. He’ll need to find another lady to flirt with.

As he takes the seat, the unnamed woman raises a brow to him in a challenge. Rhys is immediately taken with her. Intrigued by her bravery. Her attitude. He likes a girl with spunk.

Her eyes are the most magnificent shade of blue, amplified by the deep dye of her dress. Stunning.

“Who,” Rhys begins, pausing to tap the end of his cigarette into the nearby tray. She’s not impressed. “Are you?”

“I’m,” the woman mirrors him, takes a sip of her brandy. “Am no one.”

Rhys’s smile is feline; he likes her. The man gestures towards her with one hand, leaning against the bar with his other arm. “I beg to differ.”

“Oh?” she asks. The way her eyes sparkle—incredible.

“To be able to afford that dress, you’d have to be someone,” Rhys says matter-of-factly.

“Oh! A man who knows fashion. A rarity!” The woman’s lips quirk ever so slightly at the comment, and another sip of brandy leaves behind the red of her lipstick on the glass.

“You’ll find I’m a very rare sort of man,” Rhys purrs. The woman observes him; he thinks she might just ignore him, but then she speaks.

“I’ll try again then: who I am is none of your business,” she says, and then she holds her hand out. A silent request for a cigarette.

This time Rhys’s smile has teeth. He obliges her, allowing her to take the cigarette while he digs out his matchbook. To his delight, the woman leans in like a proper lady, allowing him to light the cigarette for her.

The woman’s eyes shine with intelligence; he can’t help but admire them again. They’re storm gray, a blue complimented by her navy dress.

Cigarette lit, Rhys leans back and takes another drag of his cigarette, making a show of looking thoughtful. Then the man leans in close to this strange, interesting woman and whispers a secret to her.

“I’ll have you now, it’s my job to know everyone in this bar,” Rhys tells her, and her eyes sparkle with amusement.

“What an important man, you are,” she teases, taking a drag of her own.

“Well,” she taps out the cigarette. “Then I suppose, I should be going,” the woman says, rising from her seat and taking leave of the bar. Rhys can feel Cassian’s shit-eating grin burning into the back of his head.

Rhys isn’t the type of guy to follow after someone. He’s Rhysand Fucking Darling. But as the mysterious woman glances at him over her shoulder, luring him in with that closed-lipped smile, he thinks: _Fuck it._

If she wanted him to chase her, Rhys would. Just this once. Only to find out her name.

He bolts from the bar.

The woman’s already gone by the time he makes it out the door; Rhys ignores the howls coming from the pub patrons inside. Cassian’s wolf whistle is distinct amongst the din, but Rhys doesn’t really give a shit about them right now. He’s got to find this girl.

“Looking for me?” A soft alto voice calls from behind him, and Rhys spins around. Another day, that surprise would cost him his life.

Rhys smirks if only to hide the fact that his heart is racing with excitement. It’s been a long time since a woman made him feel like this.

Rhys eyes the ring on her finger instead of answering. A sparkling square-cut emerald; it’s an ostentatious thing, expensive. Rhys noticed it earlier, of course, but he leads a gang. He’s morally grey on a good day.

He gives her a curious expression, “Your future husband know where you’ve wandered off to tonight?”

Those stormy eyes flash in warning even through the haze of desire in them. “Fuck him.”

“Now, now,” Rhys purrs, reaching out and dragging his hands down her waist to her hips. The touch is tentative a first, but when the woman doesn’t pull away, Rhys tightens his grip.

“I thought you were here to fuck me.”

○ ○ ○

His lover moans for him as he presses her between the wall and himself, allowing her to feel the evidence of just what she was doing to him. They clawed each other apart all the way back to his little apartment above the Sidra; Rhys was _burning_.

The woman isn’t shy; she arches her back, hands spread against the wall for support, and leaning into him heavily. She’s pliant in his hands.

Rhys smirks into her neck, sucking the skin there roughly. It earns him deep, sultry moans that he can’t get enough of. Her voice had a little rasp to it before, in the bar, but here in his bedroom, it’s husky and wanting and driving him insane.

When he presses himself inside her, Rhys can’t stop the guttural noise that escapes him. Fuck, she feels good. She’s warm and tight and—shit, she’s so wet for him.

The only thing Rhys thinks could make it better would be to know who to mutter all of his dirty thoughts to. Her name—she wouldn’t give it to him. It made Rhys like her more.

The woman moans again, mirroring his own voice. Rhys rocks his hips once, slowly, beginning to press deeper into her body, but the woman reaches out behind her, scraping her long nails against his thigh to get his attention.

He grunts at the brief pain, and she laughs. The sound breathless and heady; combined with the feeling of her wrapped around him, it makes Rhys a little dizzy. He takes the touch as a sign to keep going, but then she makes a noise that stalls him. A whimper. Discomfort.

“Wait,” she gasps, clutching at one of his hands where it grips her hip. “One second. This—it’s a lot.”

Smug would be one way to describe Rhys’s expression as he stills inside of her. He waits for her, gives her time to adjust to the feeling of him inside her. Rhys runs his hands up and down her sides; he pinches at her nipples and sucks at the junction where her shoulder and throat meet. Figuring out what she likes based on the reactions he’s able to draw out.

“A little bit more than what you’re used to?” Rhys purrs in her ear. She’s not too distracted to snort at him; he smiles. A good sign.

Rhys takes the cue when she begins to rock her hips, giving him a taste of the delicious friction that they both crave. Another groan escapes him, and Rhys starts to thrust into her. The woman gasps in tandem with his pushing and pulling, and Rhys thinks that he might not last very long if she keeps making all these little noises.

One of her hands travels to the back of his head, reaching behind herself to reach his hair and tug. Another groan out of Rhys. Her remaining hand moves to the arm Rhys has wrapped around her middle, gripping it hard enough to cut off the blood flow.

“Harder,” she orders, and he complies with a moan.

It doesn’t take much to have the woman falling apart around him. Once. Twice.

Her legs go soft with her last orgasm, and her head falls back in a deep moan. Rhys steadies her body, presses a few kisses to her temple, and snaps his hips up into her, working her through her orgasm. He’s close, too.

He pulls out. Best to minimalize the chances of creating another Darling bastard.

“Wait, stop,” the woman tells him when she notices what he’s doing. Rhys hesitates on instinct, one firm hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. He gives her an incredulous look. Stopping is the last thing he wants to do.

She flashes him a sinister smile, sinking to her knees before him without another word. Rhys’s mouth goes dry at the image of her at his feet, and the sparkle in her eye is full of promises and dirty thoughts

She wraps her red painted lips around him, and Rhys’s mind goes blank.

○ ○ ○

Later that night, Rhys is awoken to the women’s gasp of surprise. His eyes crack open to watch her slide out of bed, likely to make her getaway. It isn’t proper for a lady to stay out all night, but Velaris territory isn’t the proper part of Prythian anyway. A girl like her only comes here to get into trouble.

And trouble she found.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” He purrs, and the woman startles, shoots him an angry glare over her shoulder. Rhys grins lazily at her, making a show of admiring the miles of freckled, pale skin he exposed earlier. Maybe he could convince her to stay a little longer. In the morning, he could pay for her cab home.

Then Rhys’s gaze snags on a bruise on her hips. “Fuck, did I do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” the woman tells him noncommittally. “Guess we played a little too roughly, but I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.”

Rhys swears again, sitting up and leaning forward to take a better look. “Did I hurt you? Why didn’t you tell me to fu—”

The bruise is an old, yellowed thing. Healing. Rhys did not give her that bruise, and it doesn’t look like the type of mark that comes from sex either. It looks like she fell on it, like she was pushed down.

Rhys freezes, his ears ringing as the realization comes to him.

“Who did this to you?” He hardly recognizes his own voice when it sounds like this. When he gets like this. The woman pales, at his tone or being caught, Rhys doesn’t know, and she quickly yanks her slip over her head, making quick work of covering the offending injury.

“Who?” he asks again. Rhys leads a gang. He tortures people, kills them. He drinks too much and smokes far more than necessary. He’s not afraid of blackmail, and he often sleeps with women that aren’t appropriate for him. Most of his daily activities are various shades of illegal, but Rhys never ever hits a woman.

“Who?” Rhys demands again, growing impatient. He doesn’t know this woman, doesn’t even know her fucking name, but whatever bastard decided to throw her around was about to find themselves at the end of his fists. His gun would be too quick.

“None of your business,” the woman hisses, gathering her belongs and throwing them on as speedily as possible. Running, that was what she was doing.

“Was it the fiancé?” Rhys’s voice drips with venom. To have a woman as amazing as this and to _beat_ her. To chase her out of your bed and into the streets, into his filthy ass pub—into the den of a fucking gang.

“I _said,_ ” her grey-blue eyes flash with warning. The same eyes that managed to draw Rhys in from across an overcrowded room, “it is none of your _fucking_ business.”

She leaves him there, naked in his bed that smelled of her. Leaves him sitting there, blood boiling, skin itching with the need to _do something._

He doesn’t see her in his pub the next night. Or the next.

○ ○ ○

“We have a situation,” Azriel tells Rhys a few days later. He better, Rhys thinks. His brother has just interrupted a critical meeting with a very judgmental Illyrian relative to say those four words.

“Outside,” Azriel adds, voice impatient. “Now.”

Rhys watches his quietest family member turn on his heels and flee the pub. The man sends an apologetic smile in the direction of the family member, and then he signals for the owner to bring him a round on Velaris.

Stepping into the sunlight, Rhys adjusts his cap on his head and fixes the lapels on his coat. He likes to look his best, regardless of the situation. Impressions are important.

“The better be serious, Az, or I swear I’ll—”

Rhys’s voice gets lost in his throat when he looks up and into the barrel of a gun.

Tamlin Bellerose stands in the middle of the street, dressed in a tan suit and wearing a severe scowl. The nerve.

“What brings you to this side of town, Tamlin?” Rhys drawls, retrieving his cigarettes from his pocket. Better to keep his hands busy smoking than to show his nerves with shaking fingers. “Missed the factory smoke?”

Tamlin sneers in Rhysand’s direction. It’s going to be that kind of visit then. Lovely.

“No, I’m afraid something dire has come to my attention,” Tamlin rests his hands on his hips. “Something that needs settling.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rhys nods his head, but he doesn’t take his eye off the gun for a second. “That suit of yours is _very_ out of season.”

“ _Rhys_ ,” Azriel pleads under his breath. He stands to his brother’s side, gun trained on the lackey aiming for Rhys’s favorite hat.

Rhys doesn’t correct himself, waits. Tamlin sneers at him again before turning his back on Azriel and Rhys and heading for his cab. It doesn’t seem very smart to turn your back on your sworn enemy, but then again, Rhys and Az are quite outnumbered.

Voices announce the arrival of more people. A quick glance to his left reveals Cassian and Morrigan; their guns are out and aimed at the Spring men before they’ve even registered who they’re aiming for. Like their parents taught them.

“It’s come to my attention,” Tamlin announces, reaching into his car, “that someone from this Godforsaken part of town has taken something significant from me.”

The Spring leader yanks a person from out of his cab, dragging them closer to where Rhys stands at the entrance to the pub. They wear a dress—a woman.

Rhys has a very, very bad feeling about this.

“So, I’d like to know,” Tamlin asks, yanking the bag off and revealing Rhys's lover's face without a care for the woman, “which one of your men slept with my fiancé?”

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only one excuse for the delay, and that is, Feyre and Rhys did NOT want to talk to each other. Haha! Anyway, here we are! I hope it lives to the expectations. :)
> 
> **warnings: no smut. however, domestic/familial abuse triggers apply.**

Fuck.

Rhys takes a deep drag from his cigarette, ignoring the feeling of those terrified blue eyes on his face, how they burn into his skin and make his body hot with rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.

It’s been a long time since Rhys felt this alive with anger. Five years. Back when Azriel found Morrigan washed up on the bay of the Sidra, beaten and mutilated by a father she thought loved her, would care for her. She’d been barely alive.

It was only his deep, undying loyalty to his family, to their ways, that saved Keir Hewn from his fate—a bullet in his head and a quick and dirty toss over the Veritas bridge. Let him live the fortune he’d assigned Morrigan but in her stead. Poetic justice. Maybe even that wasn’t enough of a punishment.

And yet. _This is a family. We make decisions as a family. Live as a family. Love as a family. Take revenge as a family._

And so, Cassian and Rhys had to lock Azriel up in the family vault for the night. To keep him from carving Keir up into tiny, unidentifiable pieces. Mor would never have forgiven Azriel—or Rhys, who she’d declare the _obvious_ _orchestrator_ —for betraying her request.

_Leave him be. He’s not worth our time._

And then: _I’ll get my revenge when I’m ready._

Rhysand Darling viewed the decision as a display of weakness, but Rhys knew that Morrigan had something up her sleeve.

“Well?” Tamlin snaps, yanking Rhysand from the depths of his mind. His violet eyes slide to his contender, pretending to size up the declaration, the challenge. There isn’t one; Tamlin Spring is a joke, a man walking in the shadow of his father. If it weren’t for Mr. Spring’s hard work and planning, the man in front of Rhys wouldn’t be worth anything.

Rhys looks to the woman’s bruised face. Her bloodied nose. Perhaps, he’s not entirely accurate with that statement. Tamlin’s the kind of guy whose anger gets him places. Hopefully, one day it’ll earn him a shallow grave.

The clicking of heels on worn cobblestone keeps Rhys from having to answer the bastard in front of him. Amren wears one of her best grey outfits today, her hair a stark contrast. She wears a stunning raw ruby around her throat. In this part of town, it’s begging to be stolen from around her little neck, but only a true idiot would try and rob Amren.

“Just because you can’t keep your girl in check, Tamlin,” Amren walks right over to Rhysand, admires the guns pointed at him and Azriel like she would a shiny new diamond, “doesn’t give you the right to come blasting into our part of town, causing a fuss.”

The leader of Spring stares at Amren. She doesn’t look all that intimidating in her sharp blouse, pleated skirt, and sharp, short haircut. But Rhys and the rest of Velaris know better.

It’d taken a lot of convincing, on Mor’s part, to get the woman to try out the new hairstyle. Amren never went back. She twirls the ruby necklace while she waits for her answer.

“Mind your manners, woman,” Tamlin sneers. Amren doesn’t so much as blink.

“I’d advise you, Tamlin,” Rhysand interrupts before his aunt can draw her weapon. Most likely that knife in her belt. “That threatening Aunt Amren is will only warrant you a visit to the doctor.”

“As is calling me aunt,” Amren hisses without breaking eye contact with Tamlin. Rhys smiles. He loves her.

“We keep our women in their place over in Blackthorn,” Tamlin dares to look away from Amren to glare at Rhys; it’s like turning his back on a lioness. “Maybe you should try it.”

Rhys drops his cigarette to the ground, digs it into the dirt with his shoe. It pains him to do so, but he drags his eyes over the woman in the dirt, assessing her like she were some injured horse rather than a human being. Hell, Rhys wouldn’t even treat a horse this way.

“I’m not much for hitting a lady,” he purrs at last. “I’d much rather fuck one.”

The woman gasps. Rhys tucks his hands into his pockets to hide how they shake with his rage, how they long to collide with Tamlin’s ugly face. His mind keeps recalling the bruise on the woman’s hip. The one on her ribs. Tamlin. It was Tamlin that did that made all those marks.

This woman was running from him that night Rhys found her in his bar, took her home for an evening of escape. A lot of good that did her.

Trouble. That was all Rhys ever brought upon people, upon himself.

The man in question rushes Rhys, breaking through his men and grabbing him by his starched collar. Tamlin throws him up against the windows of the bar in the blink of an eye; it’s a wonder the glass doesn’t shatter.

“It was you,” Tamlin growls through his teeth. “Of course, it was. After all these years, you still have it out for me, feel as if you haven’t taken _enough_.”

Azriel is tense beside them, and Amren looks furious. Silver fire burning in her eyes; she clutches her knife.

“Well, it isn’t called a vendetta for nothing,” Rhysand quips, and Tamlin grips his jacket harder. “But rest assured, this wasn’t premeditated. Even I’m not clever enough to trick a woman into coming into my bed.”

“Like hell,” Tamlin growls.

“You flatter me,” Rhys smiles. He prays his bravado doesn’t fail him now.

The marching of boots interrupts their back and forth. Uncle Devlon is still in the bar, and so, his men have returned to pick him up. A band of Illyrians walks up to the scene unfolding, hands on their swords. Blood is blood, and Rhysand is Illyrian. Partly. Thanks to his mother.

“We’re not finished,” Tamlin hisses, pulling Rhys forward and then slamming him back against the window for emphasis.

Rhys’s head cracks against the glass, but the way his vision flickers isn’t enough to stop him from getting the last word. “We never are, Tamlin. Until next time!”

The coward rushes to his vehicle, hopping in as another man starts the car. Tamlin always was afraid of what he didn’t know, and very few people in Prythian understand the Illyrian culture. Most fear them, look down upon them for being different.

“Get her off the ground,” Amren wastes no time as the engine roars to life, taking Tamlin and his men with him. Those who don’t hitch a ride in the car flee down the street. Velaris men follow after them without being told. They’ve learned well.

Morrigan rushes to the stranger’s side, and the woman flinches visibly when Rhys’s cousin reaches for her.

Mor pauses, hands still outstretched, and whispers something that Rhys can’t hear into the woman’s ear. Finally, the woman allows Mor to help her to her feet by an elbow; they only take a few steps before Rhys’s mystery woman stumbles and falls back towards the ground.

Rhys can’t take his eyes off of the beaten creature, but he can’t get his feet to move towards her either. His ears ring from the collision with the window, and his blood races in his veins. He wants to chase after Tamlin right now, take his revenge. Yet, it would be suicide to do so.

Cassian is there to help the woman in an instant. He kneels to speak with her, and with permission, he sweeps the woman off of the ground and takes her inside the bar. They need to get her out of the street and away from prying eyes and ears.

“Rhysand.”

Rhys’s ears are still ringing when Amren slaps him hard in the face. The man blinks, her pale eyes coming into focus. His aunt scowls. “Pull it together, boy. People are watching.”

Everything snaps into focus.

“Azriel, make sure those Spring men are gone—now.” Rhys spring into action, meeting his brother’s eye. “We need to increase security. At the house. At the bars. Everywhere. Make sure the family is safe.”

Azriel nods once. Disappears.

“Someone bring Madja,” Rhys orders. There are enough of his men in the street. Someone will bring him the healer. She’s as old as time itself, but the woman’s served his family for most of it.

Uncle Devlon eyes Rhysand as he reenters the bar.

“We need to finish our discussion.” The man looks utterly put out and a little drunk.

Rhys clasps hands with him before parting. “We do. I’ll come to visit you in a few days,” he says, mustering every ounce of the charisma he inherited from his father. The scumbag. It takes a world of focus to keep his eyes trained on the man in front of him and not the woman in the next room.

“How does that sound?” Rhys continues, offering another bottle to his uncle to take back to the camps with him. “You can show off that new horse you were going on about.”

The idea seems to please Devlon, and he nods. The Illyrian men look hesitant to leave, given the situation they walked in on, but Amren shoos them out, afraid of no man. They fear the fiery woman more than they do modern technology.

“Silas!” Rhys hears Mor call from the private room in the back. “Be a doll and bring your auntie some rum, love!”

A young boy darts out of the private area and heads for the bar, launching himself onto the countertop and then over it in a display of grace only a young boy can pull off. Silas isn’t supposed to be near the bar. Ever. Rhys has a feeling that his nephew heard the commotion and came running. He’d need to talk to Cassian about that.

Rhys enters the private room. Amren and Morrigan are making quick work of getting the woman cleaned up.

“The fucking bastard,” Morrigan hisses as she dips a cloth into a water basin. “Just threw her in the dirt and left her there. I’ll fucking shoot him myself the next time I see him.”

“That was a lot of nerve,” Cassian growls in Rhys’s direction, low and under his breath. Concern flares in his brother’s hazel eyes, “showing up here in the middle of the day like that.”

“We’re going to need to reset her nose,” Amren announces to the room as Silas returns with the bottle of rum and hands it over to Mor. “He really did a number on her.”

Rhys nearly explodes with fury. He thinks back to the night they shared, and how she refused to tell him who was beating her, how she declined his help. It takes a lot to keep the man standing in the doorway; all Rhys wants to do is turn around and head for Blackthorn, show Tamlin what it feels like to have the shit beat out of him.

“Rhysand!” Amren snaps. “Now’s not the time for daydreaming. Did you send for Madja?”

“On her way,” Rhys says, leaning against the door and keeping his distance.

Morrigan pops open the bottle of rum and offers it to the woman. “You’ll want to take some of this. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

Silas stands close to Rhys; he's trying to stay out of the way but is eager to help the adults, wants to see what’s going on. He turns his hazel eyes on Rhysand; they look so much like his father’s.

“Can I help?” The boy asks. Rhys ruffles his shaggy dark brown hair with a soft smile.

“Go fetch Saoirse for me,” Rhysand tells his nephew. “Tell her to bring a set of clothes.”

The woman cries out as Amren resets her nose. The boy pales at the sound of pain, glances at Rhys once more, and then shoots off like a rocket. Cassian blanches. Father like son. Rhys’s brother has had his nose set a few more times than he can count.

“Shit! Gimme that.” The woman swears, snatching the bottle from Morrigan and taking another swallow; both Amren and Morrigan grin at her. They like her immediately.

Mor says as much, announcing it to the room. Then: “I can see why you risked getting into so much trouble, Rhys.”

The room stills.

He’d told her, of course. About the mysterious woman, he’d taken to bed. The one that wouldn’t give him her name before she disappeared in the morning haze. The stupid bastard told that cousin of his everything, but it was moments like this that Rhys really regretted their bond.

Amren steps close to him, looking him in the eye. “So, you were serious then? You weren’t joking around? Trying to get a rile out of Tamlin?”

Rhys meets her eye, but his silence says it all.

“You bloody idiot!” Amren punches Rhys in the arm. Hard. He has to clench his jaw to hide the wince of pain. She has the boniest knuckles. “Of all the places to put your dick, you just had to pick your rival’s bride?”

She punctuates her words with her fist, and Rhys grimaces, giving in to the pain. He’s not very fond of Amren right now. He gives her a look to say as much, and Amren retreats with one last glare.

“Everyone out,” he says. An order.

They all eye Rhys, speculating. He’s in a foul mood today, so he waits and ignores them. One by one, they leave. Cassian is first out the door, likely off to check on the guard rotations, and Amren gives him one last scathing look on her way past him. He’s going to get a lecture later for sure. Morrigan, on the other hand, checks with the woman first, waiting to see if she’s alright being left alone, and Rhys can’t fault her for that one. Mor knows better than any of them how to handle this situation.

“I’ll be back with Madja and Saoirse,” Mor tells their guest. It’s a promise.

The door swings shut behind Mor, and the room fills with silence. Rhys can hear the soft voices in the next room, likely gossiping about this morning’s drama; another gang doesn’t walk into his territory very often. It’s even less often that they throw a woman at Rhys’s feet and abandon her as if she’s nothing.

Rhys’s chest tightens with his anger at the memory; he feels very guilty for this woman’s fate. Even if it was her decision as much as it was his. He should’ve known nothing good was going to come her way; fate never was kind to someone that Rhysand Darling paid attention to.

They stare at each other for a while, neither making the first move to speak. Rhys moves closer to her in the silence, and those blue-gray eyes watch him warily. He picks up a towel, wets it with the water, and gestures at her face.

“May I?”

The woman is clearly trying to determine the trap, but after a moment’s consideration, she nods. Gone is the fire that drew him in those few nights ago. Mother, it felt to Rhys as if it was only yesterday that she was enticing him with her sharp barbs and cunning smiles.

Rhys takes the bottle of rum and pours some of it onto the washrag. He gives the woman an apologetic look before dabbing the cloth to the gash over her left eye; she hisses, pulling away from the pain instinctively.

They share a look: Rhys is unimpressed, and the woman scowls. Then he presses the rag back towards the cut; her eye is bruising more and more by the minute. The skin around her nose a sickly color. Tamlin did some of his best work on her; it fills Rhys with that burning anger, the kind that makes him disconnect from his body, turns off his thoughts, and leaves only one instinct behind.

To fight.

“So,” she begins, clenching her jaw to fight the reflex to pull away from his touch. “You’re Rhysand Darling.”

Rhys pauses, looks her in those blue eyes. She didn’t know then. Interesting.

“And you’re Tamlin Bellerose’s fiancé,” he adds more liquor to the cloth, dabs at her cheek while he thinks. “Well, I suppose, former fiancé now.”

The woman takes the bottle from his hands, takes a swig. Rhys cracks the slightest of smiles; he likes this woman, even if she brings trouble. She has spunk. She isn’t afraid of him, although, maybe she should be.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she tells him, and Rhys gives her a critical look. Would she go back to him? After this? She clearly didn’t want to be with him in the first place.

“Tamlin doesn’t give up his toys very easily,” she explains, and the look on her face says it all: _he’ll be back._ Has he done something like this before then?

Rhys grits his teeth, using the cloth to wipe at the blood on her lip. The woman lets him, clearly waiting for whatever it is that Rhys is trying to find the words to say.

“I can find somewhere for you to stay,” he decides on, “if you don’t want to return to him—or until you decide you do, whichever suits your fancy.”

Action. That’s the natural course for Rhys to take. _Here’s how I can fix your problem,_ is Rhys’s first instinct.

“You don’t have to do that,” she argues, “I can find somewhere on my own.”

Rhys shrugs. “I have connections. But it’ll cost you.”

Her eyes darken, but Rhys holds her gaze. He suspects he knows precisely what she thinks he’s implying. Everyone’s heard about Rhysand Darling and his deals. He wouldn’t expect this woman to think anything higher of him because they’ve fucked.

“Oh?” She says, careful.

His smirks, “Your name, darling.”

The scowl she sends his way makes his blood race in a good way. A thrill runs through Rhys, the type of excitement he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Feyre,” she relents after an intense staredown. Amren could take some notes from her. “Feyre Archeron.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: um… rhys is kind of an ass? haha, on that note, this is inspired by the peaky blinders netflix series, so for those of you that haven’t watched it, it can be pretty messed up sometimes. just a fyi going forward… i will continue to tag with warnings.

“Feyre Archeron.”

Rhys gives one curt nod and drops the rag back into the basin of water. Blood stains the skin of Feyre’s face; she’ll need a real bath to wipe away the rest, and even then, the stain on her soul won’t go anywhere. Rhys can see it in her eyes, the same look Morrigan often gets, far away and detached. Those kinds of trauma never really leave you. Most trauma doesn’t.

“Lovely to meet you, Feyre,” he tastes her name for the first time, doesn’t like the warm feeling it gives him. Rhys isn’t the type of man that gets a good woman and manages to keep her for more than an evening; he doesn’t have that kind of luck. Or security.

“I’ll talk with Mrs. Maxine about getting you a place to stay,” Rhys tells Feyre, and she locks her jaw. It’s clear to him that this woman isn’t the type of girl to take charity, which is impressive considering where she’s coming from. Tamlin Bellerose had her dressed up one night, and the next had her dumped in streets of Starfall in nothing but her undergarments, like a discarded doll.

 _Tamlin doesn’t give up his toys very easily_ , she’d said.

That means he’ll be back, and Rhys will need to be ready.

“I will pay my way,” Feyre practically snarls, and Rhys smiles, but it isn’t kind.

“With what money?” He growls. He isn’t trying to be cruel, but it’s clear she needs a reality check. A woman like Feyre doesn’t even own the clothes on her back—not that she’s really wearing any. Everything belongs to the man in their life, and Feyre’s just left her in the middle of the street.

All he can think about is his sister, how dependent she is on him, and what she’d have to do if he were to finally meet that cruel fate awaiting him before his little sister had someone of her own to count on. Feyre’s eyes burn in his direction, but Rhys pursues, incapable of stopping himself now that he’s started.

“Will you sell your body then?” Rhys asks. “Do you have any other skills?”

Feyre slaps him hard, lightning-fast. His head snaps to one side, and Rhys is stunned. She has her hand up ready for another strike before he’s even reopened his eyes.

“I _dare you_ ,” he purrs, voice low and threatening. He’d never hit a woman, never hurt one like Tamlin or any of the other bastards in this city would, but it doesn’t mean Rhys won’t get pissed off at one.

Feyre takes a second to consider her next course of action, and Rhys waits with bated breath, pulse racing at the challenge. Her eyes are like twin blue flames, brighter and hotter than any mortal fire.

She shoves him with both hands, pushing into his chest and sending him stumbling backward. It surprises him, her strength. Determination.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Feyre snarls, baring her teeth. Rhys grins, obliges.

His sister chooses that moment to make her arrival; Saoirse bursts through the double doors without any gentility, a woman on a mission. She glares at Rhys.

“Rhysand,” Saoirse eyes the woman standing in front of him, hackles raised and claws out. “What the fuck have you done?”

“We’ve just been discussing how she plans to make a living in this hellhole,” Rhys drawls, pocketing his hands. He doesn’t want Saoirse to see how affected he is by Feyre. She’ll latch onto any small detail like a hawk; Saoirse is almost as bad as Mor. Almost.

“Let me guess,” his sister says, stepping between Rhys and Feyre, “he was a right arsehole about it, yeah?”

Feyre doesn’t answer, but she sends a scathing look to Rhys. He decides to take that as his cue to go and leaves without another word. Mor and Madja meet him at the door. The older woman gives him a once over, checking for injuries.

“Fuck,” Mor swears from behind him, having passed him and already entered the room. “Rhys, you’re bleeding.”

“I’ll take a look, Rhysand,” Madja tells him in her stern voice. “If you’ll take a seat—”

“Not in here,” Saoirse barks. “We don’t like him. He can wait.”

“What did you do?” Mor asks with a raised brow. Rhys ignores her.

“I’ll be alright, Madja,” he tells the healer. He thinks it’s very likely he’s concussed, but he’s taken worse blows to the head. “You take care of her.”

Rhys leaves before any of the overbearing women in his life can tell him to stay. He has work to do; he needs to find his brothers, plan their next course of action. They need to prepare if Spring is planning to come back here. When Spring does, according to Feyre.

○ ○ ○

A beautiful young woman named Saoirse gives Feyre a change of clothes. She’s stunning, with miles of smooth, dark hair and rich light brown skin. Like Rhysand. Perhaps they're related. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds as she makes idle chatter, words blending due to the speed in which she talks.

Feyre knows what she’s doing. The move is right out of her sister Elain’s playbook. Talk to fill the silence. Smile through the pain. Pretend you don’t notice the blood.

It’s been a while since she thought of her sisters. Feyre wonders how they’re doing. If those pretty little marriages of theirs held up, or if they, too, have been left in the dirt. Like Feyre.

“What fucking bastard did this to you?” Saoirse cries. The girl got to work on her immediately—the grim healer inspecting over her shoulder.

“Tamlin,” the older woman says, and Saoirse turns pale. Her eyes blaze.

“Well, fuck ‘em,” the younger girl says. She can’t be much younger than Feyre, but she talks like the sailors down at the pier. Tamlin would be furious to hear her language. “If that bastard shows back up on this side of town, my brother will put a bullet in his head.”

It’s a funny thing, love. Feyre’s heart twists at the idea of something happening to Tamlin, and even as she feels relief at being apart from him, at the chance for a brief reprieve from her prison, Feyre panics at the idea of someone killing Tamlin.

The healer sees right through her. “He won’t risk a war, dear.”

Feyre doesn’t feel very reassured, but she forces a smile anyway. Saoirse groans, scowling at something she sees on Feyre’s face.

“You’ll need a proper bath,” she tells her, “if we’re to get all that blood off your face.”

Madja nods. “The nose seems well set, thanks to the ladies, and your ribs aren’t broken, but you’ll have a nasty bruise. I’ll come to check on you in a few days.”

The blonde woman, Mor, procures a giant coat from seemingly out of nowhere. “Let’s get you covered up enough to go outside. I don’t want to ruin those clothes with blood.”

“Where are we taking her?” The youngest woman asks, helping to drape the coat around Feyre and buttoning her up.

“Amren said to take her to the den,” Mor says softly. Saoirse looks surprised. “You know that Rhys will say the house is off-limits to those who aren’t blood, and we can’t dump her on Maxine like this. The woman would faint.”

Saoirse wears a grim expression. “I suppose it is closer.”

They set off. Feyre is thankful when the bar is empty of patrons, saving her from an audience. The young boy who brought the rum sits on the sidewalk outside; he jumps to his feet at the sight of them, eyes wide and curious.

“Silas,” Saoirse addresses him. “Where’s your father?”

Silas shrugs. Morrigan sighs in exasperation. “Well, go on and make yourself useful! Check-in with Amren and see if they’ve secured lodgings for—“

Mor looks to Feyre, “Uh, what’s your name?”

She flushes. Right, she’d only told Rhysand what her name was, and even then, she’d slept with him first, brought a potential war to his door. Cauldron, she was an idiot.

Why did she go out and sleep with some guy a fortnight before her wedding? Feyre risked everything with the decision to go out on the town one last time and live a little. And it looks like she lost the gamble.

Yet, Feyre felt more alive that night at Rita’s then she had in months, dancing at parties and smiling on Tamlin's arm. She’d put on her best dress and went out to a different part of town and drank and flirted—more than flirted. 

Her cheeks heat at the memory of that night, the way she let Rhysand pin her up against some dirty brick wall for searing kisses, then his bedroom for more than that. Mother, she'd slept with someone who she _didn't even know_.

“I think the poor thing is in shock,” Saoirse tells Morrigan. The blonde looks as if she agrees, barks her order to Silas. The little boy can sense the gravity of the situation; he takes off in another direction and disappears around a bend.

Feyre follows the women in silence. She’s no idea where they’re going, has no choice but to follow their lead. They speak to one another in low voices, eyes darting back and forth as they walk. Feyre can’t make out what they say.

“Here we are,” Mor declares as they approach a nondescript townhouse.

Saoirse still has her hands wrapped around Feyre’s shoulders, the gesture comforting. She guides Feyre into the building, and Feyre’s senses are assaulted. The air smells of cigarette smoke; people are everywhere. Feyre feels cramped, and she goes dizzy with the amount of noise. People shout over one another using all sorts of crude language and terms she can’t understand.

The men all step aside at the sight of the three women, allowing them to pass with notable deference. Mor holds open a door for them, and Feyre enters a sitting area, small and quaint and comfortable. When the door shuts, they’re thrown into silence.

“What is this?” Feyre says quietly. She’s never seen that kind of place before.

Morrigan and Saoirse share a look, but it’s Amren’s low voice that answers, her heels clicking down the stairs to announce her arrival, “It’s a gambling den.”

“Gambling den,” Feyre muses. “Like illegal betting.”

Mor’s warm eyes are guarded when she responds, “Is that a problem?”

“You girls should’ve brought her in around the front,” Amren chastises. Her eyes are so light they’re nearly silver. Feyre thinks the expression in them reminds her of Nesta, back when she told her sister marrying that Tomas guy was a mistake.

“Does she look like she can walk that far?” Mor snaps, crossing her arms. There are some strong personalities in this family, Feyre thinks.

“I would like to rest,” she asks instead of saying something smart. Feyre thinks it wouldn’t be wise to piss off her benefactors, wincing internally as she thinks of her last conversation with Rhysand.

Saoirse leaps at the chance to escape. “This way!”

○ ○ ○

Rhys stays the night at the gambling den. By the time he finishes his bookkeeping for the evening, it’s too late to trek all the way to his little rented apartment away from the family. He’d stopped staying at the family dwelling after the war, too ashamed to chance Mor or Amren or Saoirse hearing his fears come to life in his dreams.

He told them it was to avoid the meddling women in his life, but Amren saw through that excuse. She was sharp that aunt of his. Rhys very barely got away with anything when it came to her.

He's too tired to notice that one of the rooms is occupied, missing the soft glow of light under the door. It doesn't matter anyway, though. Rhys would find the door locked were he to try and open it, and the woman inside wouldn't answer anyway.

○ ○ ○

Feyre is sitting at the kitchen table when Rhys comes downstairs the next morning; it's too early for anyone else in the family to be there. He eyes her from the stairs. Feyre sits hunched over the table, holding a cup of something warm with shaking fingers. It isn’t until she sniffles that Rhys realizes she is crying.

It twists his heart to do so, but Rhys clears his throat to interrupt her heartbreak. She’s been through hell and back the last day or so, but Rhys doesn’t have time to be soft, to care.

He flicks a card onto the table, rejoicing in the way her eyes ignite at the sight of him. Rhys isn’t forgiven yet then. Good.

“That is the address to Ms. Maxine’s. Her husband died in the war, and now she rents the rooms out.” Then he flashes her a sly smile, “Azriel has an address for you if you’re interested in the other thing.”

Feyre bristles just like he hoped. The tears are long forgotten. “You fucking prick.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Rhys smirks. “I happen to know you like my prick.”

She flushes scarlet, but another voice interrupts before Feyre can retort. Rhys looks up to see a positively mortified Saoirse. “Ugh, gross! You did _not_!”

“Sersh,” Rhys begins, but his sister interrupts.

“You slept with my brother?” Saoirse turns her attention on Feyre, “ _That’s_ what landed you in this mess?”

“Excuse me?” Feyre sounds offended, which pleases Rhys just a little. Sometimes it's nice to see other people stand up to the family, but only within specific parameters. He likes Feyre; Rhys will let it slide.

“I asked around about you,” the youngest Darling, not counting Silas, says carefully. “Word on the street is that you were getting married this Sunday—and now you’re not. The whole bloody city is talking about how _Tamlin Bellerose’s_ fiance went whoring about the undercity, so he threw her out. That’s _you_!”

“Saoirse!” Rhys snaps, and his little sister turns her icy eyes on him. He can already tell she’s about to let her anger loose on him. Being under 18, the family doesn’t allow her to partake in the business, but it doesn’t stop her from getting involved with it anyway.

“ _What?”_ She hisses.

“Go make yourself useful somewhere that isn’t here,” he tells her, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette. “I’m sure Amren will have some chores for you.”

Saoirse scoffs at him, tossing her hair over one shoulder and spinning on her heels. Bloody teenagers. “We’re not finished!” She tells him.

“I’m going to head out as well,” Feyre decides in her quiet but firm voice. “To see Mrs. Maxine.”

Rhys smokes his cigarette and works very hard to look as if he doesn’t notice the way Saoirse’s borrowed clothes hang off of Feyre’s thin shoulders. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t noticed how… frail, she looked. Rhys wonders when the last time she ate a full meal was, which didn’t make sense. Tamlin Bellerose didn’t want for anything. Certainly not food.

Rhys is a little surprised when she turns around to face him, mouth set in a hard line. Feyre appears to be the kind of woman that has a hard time asking for help. A kindred spirit.

“Thank you for you and your family’s help,” she tells him, chin held high.

And then she leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you follow Peaky Blinders, you'll notice I've borrowed some of their plot elements. Sadly, I do not live a life of crime, and so, I needed a little help!

PART FOUR

**Two Weeks Later...**

“Look, I’m just saying that the system in Prythian is _wrong_ ,” Saoirse exclaims to Amren. “The lower class do all the work, serving the rich, and what do they get? More taxes. More regulations. Zero protections.”

Their aunt scowls at the youngest of Rhys’s siblings; Saoirse likes to talk the kind of talk that could get her into trouble. Worse than trouble. Rhys appreciates the sentiment, agrees with it even, but he worries for her. Saoirse is in enough danger just for being their sister.

“Girl, you’re going to get yourself cut,” Amren tells her, lifting a cigarette to her lips. She then turns her pale eyes on Rhys, “Are you ever going to start this meeting, or did you just miss us?”

Rhys grins at her, and Cassian’s laugh bellows into the room, echoing off the wallpapered walls. It’s early for them. Gangsters usually sleep in a little later than this. The sun is barely awake, but the Darlings have work to do.

“I thought we’d wait for Azriel,” Rhys purrs, checking the time on his watch and then tucking it back into his pocket. It’s true, Azriel is taking a while to get there; that’s unlike him. “If that’s alright with you, Auntie.”

Amren bears her teeth at him, and Mor rolls her eyes from behind her, where Amren can’t witness the undermining. The coward.

Azriel enters before they can get into it, which is probably for the best. Amren is his second in command; nothing good ever comes out of it when the two of them get into an argument. Azriel eyes them with thinly veiled amusement; he knows exactly what he’s walked into without having to ask.

“Am I interrupting?” Rhys’s half brother teases in his smooth baritone. Saoirse breaks into a giggle.

“About time you deigned to show your face,” Amren remarks. Azriel’s amused expression fades into oblivion. He must have news then.

Rhys props an elbow on the mantle of the fireplace. Don’t let the family know you’re afraid, he thinks. They look to him for support, reassurance. “What do you have for us, Az?”

Azriel’s mouth turns downward, and Rhys’s stomach plummets. He really wishes he was wrong sometimes. It would make his life a lot more boring and much less stressful.

“Devlon’s been chatting up our neighbors then,” Rhys muses without waiting for Azriel to answer him.

There’s no missing the sharp intake of breath that Mor takes, and Cassian’s mouth hangs open like a marionette. He’ll take this hit the hardest, Rhys thinks. Azriel’s never had any love for that side of their heritage, and Rhys has always toed the line when it comes to the Windhaven group. Illyrians are fickle, nomadic people. They go wherever it benefits them best. Sometimes, they cherish the half-breeds amongst them; other times, their impure heritage is only met with scorn.

“ _Uncle Devlon?”_ Saoirse hisses. “But—he’s blood.”

“He was your mother’s brother-in-law,” Amren says around her cigarette. “That only counts during the good times, dear.”

“Fuck,” Cassian breathes at last. This is very, very bad news for them. He slams his fists onto the table, allowing a little bit of that temper of his to escape, “Fuck!”

“It would seem that our distant relatives have been looking into other avenues for their vices,” Azriel sighs, displeased by the turn of events as well. Azriel takes betrayal harder than most. “Mr. Spring has invested in the underground liquor trade.”

“ _Mr. Spring_ ,” Saoirse mocks. “What a tool! Their last bloody name is Bellerose! Why doesn’t he fucking use it?”

“Because,” Rhys explains, thinking back to younger days. When he had a friend with grass-green eyes and blonde hair, before a pair of fathers went to war. “The eldest Bellerose likes to be referred to in such a manner. I imagine one day Tamlin will adopt the moniker, to make sure everyone knows he’s in charge.”

“They fucking sold out on us,” Cassian growls, still stewing on the Windhaven Clan’s betrayal. Mor eyes him warily from where she sits beside him. “For _booze_?”

“Tamlin offered them a pretty fair trade from what I hear,” Azriel tells the family. Only his clenched fingers tell Rhys that his brother is upset. “Spring gives the Illyrians some whiskey, and the Illyrians stop assisting us. We lose our army of barbarians.”

“Fucking bastards,” Amren scoffs. Her gaze meets Rhys’s from across the room, and he knows the words she’s going to speak before she does.

“Let’s wait to pay them a visit,” Rhys decides. His voice is careful as his mind races a mile a minute. “I’d like to try and reach out to Devlon, get a feel for the situation before I go beat the hell out of him. He is kin.”

Saoirse scoffs.

○○○

Feyre enters a bar on a sunny Tuesday morning. She wears the best fitting dress that she could find amongst the pile of clothing that appeared at Mrs. Maxine’s door one day. The landlady only smiled and helped her move it all up the stairs.

Mrs. Maxine didn’t say anything in reference to Feyre’s fall from grace when she arrived, but Feyre can see the judgment in her eyes anyway. Feyre fucked a man while she was engaged to another. What’s more, her landlady, and the rest of Prythian, knows _who_ Feyre slept with and _who_ she was engaged to. Rumors spread faster than wildfire in this hellhole of a city.

She wonders if the word has spread to her sisters yet, if they’re worried for her at all. Clearly not, if no one has come looking for her. Then again, Feyre entered a world of crime hidden behind pretty houses and shiny jewelry; her sisters left the underworld behind them.

Feyre needed to go and check on them, pay them a visit, but part of her was afraid they’d close the doors on her face, that she’d see only scorn and shame in their eyes. Or worse, not be able to find them.

“Can I help you miss?” The bartender asks, tentatively. He must remember her then, remember how she stood up to Rhysand, talked him into circles, and then led him out into the night, led trouble right back here to his door. Cauldron, this man is never going to give her a job. Yet, she’ll ask anyway.

“I’ve come to inquire about an open position,” Feyre tells him in practiced words. She spent the whole morning watching herself in the mirror, rehearsing what she was going to say to this man that held her future in his hands without knowing it. Feyre needed a job, needed to be able to pay for things, to buy clothes and food without having someone take pity on her—fear her.

Because the people in this part of town were a little afraid of her, they knew who set her up at the boarding house, who picked her up out of the mud and brushed her off when her fiance abandoned her. And the people in Starfall were afraid of pissing them— _him_ —off.

“The job is filled,” the man tells her without looking up from the table he cleans. Feyre frowns.

“That’s not what the sign in the window says,” she tells him, nodding towards the sign. The owner of the pub frowns deeply, moves to the window, and grabs the sign.

“I forgot to take it down,” he tells her evasively.

Feyre steps towards him, determined. She needs this job, and Feyre doesn’t know what else she could do. She lacks the education to be a governess, lacks the proper background and references to become someone’s maid, and Feyre will certainly not go to the lengths Rhysand suggested, selling her body. No, her skin is all she has left.

“You need help, and I’m offering,” Feyre tells him, looking around the bar. “You really won’t consider me?”

“What do you know about pulling a pint?” He asks, arms folded over his chest. Feyre recognizes the look in his eye. It’s not judgment, Feyre realizes. No, the pub owner is trying to protect her.

“Just give me a chance,” Feyre insists. “I learn more quickly than you’d expect. Besides, is serving in a pub really all that different than serving in a drawing-room?”

The look on the man’s face tells her that it is, in fact, different. “These boys will eat you alive. Look, at you,” he clears his throat, recognizing his rudeness. “Apologies, Miss, but you’re only going to find trouble here. I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Feyre flushes; she’s already found trouble here. Lesson learned. “You’ll find that I can take care of myself.”

She wishes she could recall his name, but Feyre wasn’t here to make friends during her last visit. She holds his eye, mouth set into a thin line; Feyre will prove herself. It’s something she’s well versed in. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then the owner sighs.

“Fuck,” he swears, wiping a hand through his thinning hair. “Alright, I’ll give you a try—a trial basis. One month—assuming you last that long, but you can’t work looking like that.” He motions towards her bruised face. It’s taking forever to heal. “Come back in a couple of days once it’s finished healing.”

Feyre taps the bruise with one finger, nodding. It’s not as tender anymore, but it’s yellowed, gross thing, like the what’s left of her soul. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

The man scoffs. “Sir? Call me Walter.”

○○○

Rhys takes his brothers down to the Windhaven Camp a few days later. Devlon declined to come to visit at the pub, which irked Rhys to no end; their uncle never missed an opportunity to drink on Rhys’s dime. It meant the older man had something to hide from him, and Rhys wanted to find out what that something was.

Because Rhys wasn’t convinced that the Illyrian camp was only interested in getting booze from Tamlin’s father. There had to be something more to it than that; it just seemed so… fickle. Even for an Illyrian band.

“Why did we all have to come?” Cassian complains loudly in the car. Azriel and Rhys had to wake him up when they got to his home, having found him still snoring.

“Because,” Azriel’s temper is wearing thin this morning. Rhys wonders at what’s gotten under his skin. “They could turn on us, you idiot. We’re showing up unannounced, and there’s a huge possibility that they’re going to take it for the power play that it is.”

“Although I’m willing to bet, they’ll be utterly hospitable,” Rhys wagers as he drives. The weather is beautiful today, a sunny, cloudless day. Hopefully, it’ll stay so.

“Ugh,” Cassian groans, face in his hands. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like it,” Azriel observes. Cassian cuts a glare in his brother’s direction. It’s clear Cassian was out drinking last night. Rhys didn’t tell him not to go out, but he’d hoped that his half brothers were both smart enough to realize the gravity of the situation they were walking into.

It appears he was half right.

“Silas was up half the night crying,” Cassian laments. “He had a bad dream—about the man in the khaki suit coming to get him.”

The brothers fall silent. The scene Tamlin caused those weeks back was not yet old news. It bothered all of them, especially Rhys.

He hadn’t looked in on Feyre, yet. Part of him was afraid he’d find her worse for wear and feel guilty about not keeping an eye on her. Another part of him thought it was best he kept his distance.

Either way, Morrigan was keeping track of the woman’s whereabouts. Feyre hadn’t reached out to any of them, and Tamlin has yet to come looking for her. Perhaps, sleeping with Rhys was too great an offense, and that meant he’d leave her alone for good?

Hope flares in Rhys’s chest again. A fickle, dangerous thing. He tamps it down, shoves it deep within him to be ignored.

None of the men speak for a long while. The Windhaven Camp comes into view in the distance with its carriages and horses. Children play on the outskirts of the camp, and women tend to them, doing chores at the same time. It’s so peaceful.

Rhys pulls to a stop, plastering on that confident yet expressionless mask he wears through life. Azriel meets his eye briefly and nods; Cassian glares at the children and their happiness, offended by their joy at such an hour. It’s a useless look; all it would take is one toothless smile to shatter that angry face.

“Rhysand?” Devlon says, approaching the car with a false smile. “What in the world are you boys doing all the way out here?”

Rhys grins politely. “We were in the area and thought we might stop by.”

○○○

Feyre feels accomplished. She glides down the cobblestone street towards the boarding house she’s staying at. The place is lovely—far too beautiful. There’s no way Feyre would have been able to secure it on her own, and she highly suspects that Mrs. Maxine has taken pity on her, offering her a lower rent than the other tenants. She suspects fear of the Darlings also plays a role.

Pride makes Feyre want to insist on fair treatment; however, she also knows that she could never afford the room on her own. There isn’t anywhere else for her to go, like Rhysand said, not unless she went home. A shiver runs through Feyre; going home is not an option.

“There’s someone waiting for you, Miss Archeron,” the landlady tells her as Feyre unpins her hat from her hair. That surprises Feyre, but it also makes her nervous. She hasn’t decided if she’s ready yet. To see Tamlin.

“Who is?” Feyre asks to prepare herself. If it is Tamlin, it’s not like she can decline to see him. That could put Mrs. Maxine at risk; her fiance’s temper isn’t something to trifle with.

“Miss Darling,” the landlady tells Feyre in a hushed whisper.

Miss Darling—but which? In the two weeks since her fall from grace, Feyre had taken to eavesdropping on the other tenants and Mrs. Maxine; Feyre wanted to learn everything she could about this cruel new world she’d been dropped into.

The Darlings she’d heard of before. Rulers of the underworld of Prythian, they lurked in the Starfall neighborhood, taking money from the people there to fund their own sinister schemes. Tamlin only ever mentioned them in passing and never in a particularly pleasant light. Yet, Feyre was having trouble reconciling the dark picture painted for her by Tamlin and his people with the one she’d pieced together for herself, here amongst the devils themselves. The people who helped her.

“I wouldn’t keep her waiting very long, Miss. It’s poor form,” Mrs. Maxine hedges, urging Feyre into the sitting room. Feyre nods in acceptance and allows the older woman to lead the way.

Morrigan Darling, previously Hewn, sits on the worn floral printed couch. Her golden hair glows in the light streaking in through the diaphanous white curtains. Word on the street was that Morrigan previously _belonged_ to a prestigious bookmaker, Kier Hewn. Her father. The man practically owned the racetracks. A perfectly legal operation that covered up his more sinister undertakings.

She’d burned that relationship somehow. Whatever it was, it was the kind of thing the people of Starfall didn’t say aloud. It filled Feyre with dread to think that this bright, bubbly woman might have been subjected to darker things than she let on. A kindred spirit.

“Miss Darling,” Feyre greeted formally. Chocolate browns eyes snap up from her teacup, and a sly smile slides on to that flawless face. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Morrigan drinks in Feyre’s appearance before saying, “That dress never did do Saoirse any favors. Yet, it looks practically made for you.”

The blonde whistles and Feyre blushes at the compliment. Mrs. Maxine looks scandalized; she excuses herself quickly from the room. As soon as the clicking of her heels fades, Morrigan Darling bursts into laughter.

“Such a sensitive thing,” Morrigan cries. “Oh, that must mean you’re nearly bored out of your mind here with her keeping an eye on you. Poor thing. I bet if you asked, Rhys would come… pay you a visit.”

Feyre stiffens at the comment and the suggestive wiggle of Morrigan’s brow. No one has mentioned that yet: the reason Feyre’s living in Starfall now, squirreled away in a boarding house and begging for a job. “Rhysand and I already had our fun. A lot of good that did us.”

Morrigan’s expression sobers, but her eyes still twinkle with some unreadable emotion. “It’s been a long time since Rhys took more than a passing look at a girl, and yet, here we are watching after you, Feyre. I wouldn’t be so certain that the fun is over.”

“It is,” Feyre hisses. Her fingers instinctively find their way to the emerald weighing down her left ring finger. Tamlin left it in her possession for a reason; that man didn’t do anything without cause. Feyre didn’t believe for a second that he simply forgot to reclaim his great-grandmother’s engagement ring.

It was a reminder. Feyre was his. Although, Tamlin didn’t seem very inclined to worry or fuss about her; he must still be mad. And rightly so.

Morrigan misses nothing, raising a brow at the sight of the ring. Feyre speaks before her visitor can.

“That night at Rita’s was an… indiscretion.” Feyre looks at Morrigan. The amusement has fallen from the other woman’s face. “The lot of you are only watching me now for two reasons: For one, I’m a connection to Tamlin and a source of information—Thereby, making me one hell of a liability.

“And two, you pity me. An abandoned woman. Disgraced because she cheated on her fiance—not even her husband. So, a ruined woman.”

Ruined long before Tamlin ever paid attention to her. A fact that her fiance was well aware of, but Tamlin liked taking broken things and reshaping them in his image. Feyre hadn’t been any different.

Morrigan tilts her head to one side, “Time’s are changing, Feyre. We’re not as chained down as we used to be. Especially not here in Starfall. Those rich snobs always take the longest to adjust, but the common folk—we let more slide than you think.”

“Not that much, Morrigan,” Feyre disagrees. She’s an adulteress—Could she be called an adulteress if she never got married? Unfaithful for sure. The worst kind of woman in man’s eye. One step above an outspoken woman. Her second offense.

“The bars may not be quite as visible as they used to be,” Feyre tells her would-be benefactor. If only Feyre were able to let someone take care of her for a change, it would make things so much easier. “But it’s a prison I’m in just the same.”


End file.
